“Yes, but then Mary will bring her wrath down upon Robert’s head instead,” said Frances. “She has already threatened to have him murdered. It’s dangerously imprudent to give her any more justification.”
Elizabeth gazed heavenward and sighed. “Mary has not hired any assassins. She wouldn’t even know how. In any case, she is angry at Robert, but not murderous.”
“We should hire a Pinkerton agent to pose as an assassin for hire,” exclaimed Ann, inspired. “He and Mary could meet ostensibly by chance at one of her favorite shops. He could confess the nature of his profession and tell her that it would be his great honor to serve the widow of the great Abraham Lincoln—you know, the sort of effusive praise she basks in—if she should ever require his services. If Mary attempts to hire him to kill Robert, the authorities would have evidence that she is not of sound mind, and she would be returned to Bellevue.”
“No, Ann,” said Frances, incredulous. “The authorities would have evidence that Mary plotted to commit murder. She wouldn’t go to Bellevue, but to prison!”
“No judge in the nation would send Abraham Lincoln’s deranged widow to prison,” Ann retorted. “Not if no one was actually harmed. She would be sentenced to Bellevue, or another place like it.”
“Oh dear Lord in heaven.” Frances covered her face with her hands and heaved a sigh. “Sometimes I have no idea what you’re thinking.”
Elizabeth regarded Ann sharply. “Sometimes I think you’re entirely too flippant about Mary’s suffering.”
“My suggestion was made in earnest,” Ann protested. “Believe me, I take Mary’s suffering very seriously. Sometimes I suspect I’m the only one who does. She is not well, and she belongs in an asylum. She has threatened Robert’s life, and you two seem more concerned with sparing her feelings than with getting a deadly weapon out of her hands!”
“Well, then, how would you get the gun away from her?” said Frances.
“Oh, no, no.” Ann laughed shortly. “I already told you what I would do. I would have a Pinkerton take it, but I am too flippant, so no one need listen to me.”
“Please,” begged Elizabeth, raising her hands, “let’s not argue among ourselves. We all want to help Mary.” She let her arms fall to her sides. “I’ll write to Robert to warn him about the gun. He will either tell us what he wants us to do, or he will consult Dr. Patterson, and we shall follow the doctor’s recommendations.”
“In the meantime,” said Frances pointedly, “you have a deeply troubled woman carrying a loaded pistol around your house.”
“In the meantime,” Elizabeth replied, an edge to her voice, “if I can think of another way to convince her to relinquish the gun, I shall do so.” Her gaze shifted to include Ann. “I trust we will all remain committed to helping Mary, if not out of sisterly love and duty, then as repayment of our debt to her martyred husband.”
Debt? Ann raised her eyebrows at Elizabeth, but when Frances nodded somberly in reply, Ann muffled a sigh and did the same. Let her sisters interpret the gesture as they wished. Of course she would continue to help Mary, in her own way, but not as repayment of any debt to Abe. She owed him for preserving the Union and for abolishing slavery, as every American did; she admired him for his accomplishments, loved him as a brother, and mourned him deeply. But to be personally indebted to him? Ann did not see it.
After her sisters left, Ann continued to mull over Elizabeth’s curious turn of phrase as she went about the daily routine of the household. Elizabeth and Ninian certainly had been in Abe’s debt, for after Ninian wrote to humbly suggest that he be offered a patronage position, Abe had appointed him a captain with the Commissary of Subsistence. William had been made an army paymaster, and his brother, Dr. Edward Wallace, had been appointed as the naval officer at the Philadelphia customhouse. Frances too owed Abe, in a sense, for it was through him that she had met William. Emilie’s husband would have owed Abe a great deal if he had been wise enough to accept the commission Abe had offered him at the beginning of the war—a post any of his brothers-in-law would have gratefully accepted—but Ben had thrown in his lot with the Confederates and had suffered the consequences, as had their brother and half-brothers who had enlisted in the rebel army.
They had all benefited from Abe’s position with regard to pride and esteem, but what had Abe ever offered Ann and Clark from his presidential largess? No patronage positions, that was for certain, not as others had received. Only Levi had been similarly overlooked, but he had fallen back into his dissipated ways and could not have been trusted with an important post. Not so Clark, a proven businessman and loyal Unionist who had deserved better. Abe had not even done Clark the courtesy of offering a satisfactory response to a simple request, something that would have been inconsequential for Abe to provide but profoundly beneficial to Clark if he had received it. All Clark had wanted, back in the winter of 1864, was for Abe to give him “simply a hint” as to when the war would end, once he was reasonably certain. If Clark had a bit of advance notice, he could strategically close out some stocks, earn a profit, and pay off some rather substantial debts. But even this little thing Abe had declined to do. Instead of promising to grant Clark’s request when the time came, he wrote only that he had no hopes of an imminent conclusion to the war, but rather expected it to be fought out “to the bitter end,” a statement that was true but entirely unhelpful.
No, Ann loved and respected Abe in life and would honor his memory in death, but she would not agree that she owed him any debt other than that which every faithful American owed to the president who had held the fractured nation together during its greatest crisis. Ann would help Mary, not to repay a debt, but because they were sisters; despite their differences and personal squabbles, if one Todd sister suffered, none of them could be truly happy.
But what to do? Someone could get hurt while they awaited advice from Robert or Dr. Patterson. Once again, it fell to Ann to act while everyone else dithered.
Rather than try to speak to Mary alone at the Edwards residence, where Elizabeth, Ninian, or Julia was sure to interrupt and possibly ruin everything, Ann came by the house one morning and invited Mary to go shopping. Mary’s eyes narrowed slightly in suspicion, but she could not resist her favorite pastime, so she put on her wraps, took up her reticule, and joined Ann in the carriage.
They began at Mary’s favorite shop for fabric, notions, and trims, where she purchased some lavender silk ribbon for a new bonnet and a spool of thread. Next they went to the milliner’s, but only to browse for inspiration. They chatted pleasantly about fashion and the weather as they went from shop to shop, and as soon as Ann sensed that Mary was feeling at ease, she said, “Mary, may I ask you a frank question?”
Mary inhaled deeply as if to steel herself. “I suppose.”
“Do you understand how upset we all are about your pistol?”
She gestured dismissively. “Many people carry pistols.”
“You never used to be one of them.”
“After what happened to my beloved husband, no one should wonder why I should want to protect myself.”
“I agree.” Ann paused. “However, I thought you should know what others are saying behind your back.”
Mary’s gaze sharpened. “And what is that?”
“I probably shouldn’t say.” Ann pretended to mull it over. “Do you promise not to tell Frances or Elizabeth that I was the one to tell you?”
“Yes, yes, just get on with it.”
“Dr. Patterson is convinced that your compulsion to carry a gun is a sign of paranoia. Dangerous paranoia, and mania,” Ann added for emphasis, for Mary was frowning skeptically. “Apparently the unreasonable refusal to give up an object, even if it is forbidden by law or the rules of a particular household, can be a sign of madness.”
“Dr. Patterson said this? To whom?”
“In separate letters to Robert and Ninian.”
“Naturally.” Pursing her mouth, Mary wheeled about, left the shop, and headed down the sidewa
lk, obliging Ann to follow. “I assume they are conspiring to take it from me by force.”
“Not exactly.” When Mary halted and turned around, frowning quizzically, Ann said, “They intend to wait, observe, and keep a record of how many days you refuse to part with the pistol. When you exceed a certain limit, they may, if they desire, use this to justify sending you back to Bellevue.”
Mary blanched. “That’s nonsense. They would need another trial.”
“I believe they’re counting on you to dread a second trial so much that you will go quietly. Of course, the obvious way to avoid all that, to keep your freedom as well as your pistol—well, I’m sure you’ve already thought of it.”
“Enlighten me.”
“Simply give the gun to someone you trust, and declare that you sold it. They will be satisfied that you don’t intend to harm yourself or anyone else, and you can have your gun quickly returned to you if you ever have a particular need for it.”
Mary pondered this, a canny glint in her eye. “I suppose you’re offering to hold my gun for me. How could I be certain that you wouldn’t give it to Ninian to lock up in his safe the moment I gave it to you?”
“You would have my solemn promise as a sister.”
“And if I asked you to return it to me?”
“I would inquire whom you wanted to shoot, and whether you intended to kill or merely maim. If I thought you were making a terrible decision, I’d attempt to help you find a better solution to whatever had you so vexed.” Ann smiled a bit sardonically. “Do you have a better idea? Which is more important to you, feeling the weight of that pistol in your pocket or being at liberty to do as you please?”
Mary considered, but they both knew there was really only one choice.
Ann’s expectations for her scheme’s success had been rather low, so it was with great relief that she carried the pistol home, removed the bullets, and locked the pistol and ammunition in separate drawers of Clark’s desk.
The following evening, when the families gathered at the Edwards residence for Sunday dinner, Elizabeth took Frances and Ann aside. “Isn’t it wonderful that Mary sold the pistol?” she murmured, the relief having taken years off her face. “How thankful I am to be relieved of this worry!”
“You’re welcome,” said Ann dryly. “She didn’t sell the pistol. I convinced her to entrust it to me until she actually needs to shoot someone, at which time I am supposed to return it, which obviously I shall not do.” Elizabeth and Frances stared at her, dumbfounded. “Yes, I also told her to lie about it. Don’t tell her you know the truth, or you’ll create anxiety where for the moment none exists.”
“Well done, Ann,” said Frances, looking somewhat amazed.
“The gun is secure, everyone is safe, and that is what matters,” said Elizabeth, smiling and reaching out to give Ann’s hand a quick squeeze.
But that was not all that mattered to Robert.
“Your letters give me great concern, not for myself, but for the things unforeseen that may yet happen,” Robert replied after his aunts wrote to tell him how the conflict over the pistol had been resolved. He reminded them that the doctors they had consulted the previous spring had warned them that no one could predict the possible derangements that could take possession of his mother, and therefore she should be placed where no catastrophe could happen.
The obvious implication was that evidently the Edwards residence was not such a place.
“I am afraid the present situation will, as it did last spring, move from bad to worse,” he continued. “If it would get better, it would relieve me from an overwhelming anxiety. My mother was removed from the care of Dr. Patterson despite my concerns as to the safety of such a step, and she remains out of professional care contrary to my judgment. No catastrophe has yet occurred, but I live in continual apprehension of it.”
If his mother’s condition did not improve, Robert concluded, he might have to return her to Bellevue Place, despite the anguish and scandal this would undoubtedly foment. “If your influence cannot restrain her in Springfield,” he asked his aunts, “what are we to do?”
What indeed, Ann wondered. She had cleverly resolved the problem of the pistol, all but single-handedly, but what about the next problem and the one after that? Because as long as Mary was free to do as she pleased, there would inevitably be more problems.
20
February–May 1862
Elizabeth
Elizabeth first learned that her nephew Willie was seriously ill from a brief, startling report in the newspaper on February 11.
SICKNESS IN THE PRESIDENT’S FAMILY.
It was announced yesterday that the usual Saturday reception at the White House and the levee on Tuesday would be omitted, on account of the illness of the second son of the President, an interesting lad of about eight years of age, who has been lying dangerously ill of bilious fever for the last three days. Mrs. Lincoln has not left his bedside since Wednesday night, and fears are entertained for her health. This evening the fever has abated and hopes are entertained for the recovery of the little sufferer.
Elizabeth’s heart thudded with apprehension. The dreadful images the words evoked were so vivid in her mind’s eye that the optimistic last line offered only a hollow comfort. A quick flurry of notes sent around Springfield confirmed that neither Frances nor Ann had known about their nephew’s illness either. They agreed that Willie must be in grave condition for reports of his sickness to make the papers, replacing the wildly popular coverage of Mary’s latest controversary.
Earlier that month, Mary had hosted a magnificent ball in the East Room of the White House, sending out more than five hundred invitations to prominent men in government and their wives, as well as to special friends, important Washington personages, and visiting dignitaries. From the renowned Mrs. Keckly, Mary had commissioned an off-the-shoulder, white satin gown with a low neckline, flounces of black Chantilly lace, black and white bows, a garland of myrtle trailing down the skirt, and a long, elegant train. An elaborate menu was planned, including roast turkey, foie gras, oysters, beef, duck, quail, partridge, and aspic, complemented by an assortment of fruits, cakes, ices, and fanciful creations of spun sugar.
As word of Mrs. Lincoln’s lavish plans spread, she provoked criticism from her usual detractors, who expressed astonishment and disgust for the vain spectacle of the ball and its hostess. “Are the president and Mrs. Lincoln aware that there is a civil war?” Ohio senator Benjamin Wade had written acidly in a widely published rejection of the invitation. “If they are not, Mr. and Mrs. Wade are, and for that reason decline to participate in dancing and feasting.”
It had pained Elizabeth to imagine how mortified Mary must have been by this very public rebuke, and to learn how many Washingtonians had shared Senator Wade’s opinion. A great many of Mary’s invitations had been brusquely declined, or so the papers reported, and nearly one hundred had been returned with indignant notes protesting the first lady’s excessive frivolity when the nation was distracted, mournful, and impoverished by the war. But in spite of such denunciations, since the event was not open to the public, invitations had remained highly coveted items. “Half the city is jubilant at being invited,” one reporter archly noted, “while the other half is furious at being left out in the cold.” Little wonder, after the New York Herald predicted that the ball would be “the most magnificent affair ever witnessed in America.” Subsequent reports soon confirmed that Mary’s gala had been a triumph.
A glorious White House ball, a child’s frightening illness—these were the stories Elizabeth once would have heard from Mary herself, a prolific letter-writer whose pen usually overflowed with news, observations, and opinions. But the sisters had quarreled, if one could call it a quarrel when it was so entirely one-sided, and Elizabeth had not heard from Mary since her last angry missive in September.
Elizabeth would never dismiss her offense as trivial, but it seemed so small among the troubles of wartime that she still could not quite bel
ieve that one misplaced letter had caused such anger and estrangement. Mary and Julia had never been particularly close, but whether from a lack of interest or a clash of personalities, Elizabeth could not say. As Julia had grown, Mary had become more disapproving of her niece’s behavior, which she considered forward, and over time, as Mary made little effort to conceal her feelings, Julia became resentful.
Even so, Mary had invited Julia and her younger sister to join her entourage aboard the Inaugural Express. Afterward, Julia and her younger sister had returned to Springfield with Frances, while Elizabeth had stayed on to help Mary settle into the White House. While they were apart, Julia had written to her mother to share the news from home, and one letter had contained unflattering remarks about her aunt Mary. If only Elizabeth had burned the letter after reading it, before it somehow became separated from her other correspondence and slipped between the bedstead and the wall of her White House bedroom, where a maid found it five months later. She presented it to her employer. Another woman would have declined to read a personal letter not addressed to herself, but not Mary. Greatly offended by Julia’s insults, Mary had fired off two angry letters, one to her niece and one to Elizabeth, denouncing their duplicity and ingratitude for insulting her behind her back after she had shown them such gracious hospitality during their stay in the White House. When Elizabeth had apologized and tried to make amends, Mary had fired back another letter full of blistering insults. Vexed, Elizabeth had resisted the temptation to apologize a second time and had decided not to write again until Mary sent an apology of her own. Since then five months had passed, with no word from Mary and no lessening of Elizabeth’s resolve.
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